The Truth of the Matter
by Dierdre
Summary: Ultimately, Sherlock blamed it on the tea.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: This is my first foray into the realm of Sherlock. I did my best to pick out the unforgiveable Americanisms, but without a proper Brit-pick, I'm sure to miss something. If you'd let me know what those happen to be, I'd be most appreciative. J_

_This story will consist of six short chapters. I hope to have a new one posted every day._

* * *

Sherlock had always had an appreciation for beauty, and while John was many things, beautiful was not one of them.

It wasn't something he had ever mentioned, not even at their first meeting, when he had flayed his potential flatmate's life open and waited to see just how he would bleed. This product of genetics and a life harder than most, etched in lines across John's face, told a simple truth to the world that Sherlock felt no need to belabor upon. Grass was green, water was wet, the stars were lovely, and John Watson was not.

He would have deleted this knowledge, along with every other memory of the man, if John hadn't rolled back his shoulders in the wake of Sherlock's deductions and expressed his admiration in three simple, unassuming words. It had been unexpected and intriguing, and less than twenty-four hours later, with a corpse cooling in the back of an ambulance and laughter on his lips, he knew that there was precious little about John that he would ever want to delete. People had drifted in and out of his life before, capturing his interest for a few bright moments before plunging into the realm of the banal, but John… John was _fascinating_.

Months passed, and the room in his mind palace, dedicated to a man with a soldier's bearing and an abhorrent taste in clothing, steadily grew. Here was where he went when he wanted to revisit the knowledge that John would kill for him, that he laughed when others fled, and that he had been the first person Sherlock had ever called a friend. It was here where he hid the realization that he trusted John more than family, and that he had become uncomfortably close to essential to the continued functioning of Sherlock Holmes. John may not have been attractive, but this fact was left to molder in a corner, abandoned in favor of shelves lined with shinier, far more interesting things.

Sherlock was content with his collection of deductions about his flatmate, and he was very used to being right. This state of affairs probably would have never changed, if it hadn't been for a cup of tea.


	2. Chapter 2

"-and while it would be ever so fun to vomit up chunks of my esophagus, I would appreciate-" There was a pause, and Sherlock glanced away from his microscope for a moment when he heard a familiar, put-upon sigh. "You're not listening to me, are you?"

John had his back turned to the table, prepping the kettle with the economy of long practice. A glance at the slope of his shoulders and the slight cant of his neck was enough for Sherlock to determine that John was not truly irritated, and so he turned his attention back to the slide. He added another few lines to his sketch of tuberculosis bacteria, and then said, "I tuned out when the whinging began."

"You left a bottle of hydrochloric acid in the fridge. Unlabeled. It's not whinging to object to your attempts to poison me."

Sherlock's mouth drew into a moue of displeasure. Without taking his eyes away from the microscope, he exchanged a light red pencil for one of a deeper shade. With a few deft strokes, a plasmid appeared on the sketch, floating in the bacteria's capsule of cytoplasm.

"Really, John, I'm insulted. If I had it in my head to poison you, you would be _poisoned_. No attempting about it." His flatmate huffed and dragged down a pair of well-worn mugs, just as the kettle clicked. "Besides," Sherlock said, "it's only a 4 percent solution. Drinking from the bottle wouldn't kill you."

"Be bloody uncomfortable, though."

John couldn't possibly have seen Sherlock's shrug of indifference, but he seemed to sense it anyway.

"Fine," he growled, giving up, as Sherlock had known he would. "Just… label everything from now on, okay? We have guests sometimes, and I have no desire to help you hide a body."

"Not to worry. I know of nineteen ways to dispose of a corpse without detection." Sherlock looked away from the microscope and scowled. "Twenty-two if we involve Mycroft."

Something in Sherlock warmed when John laughed, and his frown had all but disappeared when his flatmate turned, a steaming cup of tea in each hand. "Impressive," John said, his voice full of wry warmth. "I can only think of about eight myself."

"That's why you will never be a successful criminal. Not enough contingency plans."

John huffed in amusement and handed over Sherlock's usual mug. The overfull cup sloshed as the detective gripped the handle, and a drop of hot liquid spilled onto the back of John's hand. With a muttered curse at the slight sting, John put his mouth against the offending droplet and sucked it away. He met eyes with Sherlock, his crow's feet deep slashes that betrayed his mirth, with the blade of his flattened hand drawing attention to the deep blue of his irises, like an underscore.

Inexplicably, Sherlock's grip on his mug loosened and a few fat droplets of tea fell onto his notebook, marring the careful sketch. He tore his gaze away from John, a more difficult task that he had anticipated, and dabbed carefully at the drops with the cuff of his dressing gown. His breathing was elevated, his heartbeat a sudden staccato in his ears, and he wondered absently if this was what a bout of hypertension felt like.

A couple of deep breaths chased away the feeling, and he looked up again to see John with a expression that was equal parts curiosity and worry. "All right?" he asked.

There were flecks of gold around John's pupils. How had he not noticed that before?

Feeling off-balance, Sherlock glared at his tea, as if it had personally betrayed him. "Of course."


	3. Chapter 3

Days passed, and he was beginning to think that the Tea Incident was nothing more than an aberration, a glitch in the otherwise orderly workings of his mind. He was well on his way to forgetting about it entirely, when another event proved that life cared nothing for fairness when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

It began innocently enough, with a chase through the ground floor of an office building, culminating in a desperate, stupid lunge through a glass partition. Adam Curtwright, full time accountant and part time rapist, had fallen onto the gleaming white tiles with shards of glass embedded in his arms, and Sherlock had followed right after, intending to subdue him before he could recover himself and flee. The toe of one expensive Loakes shoe caught on the lip of the partition, however, and Sherlock fell hard beside Curtwright, momentarily stunned by the sharp, slick feel of glass grinding into his shin.

Curtwright scrambled to his feet with a groan and may have made good his escape, if a compact body hadn't leapt through the jagged opening and sent him face first to the tiles again. Sherlock found his feet in time to see John plant a boot against Curtwright's T9 vertebrae, holding him firmly in place while he fished out his phone.

After the police had hauled Cartwright away and Sherlock explained in no uncertain terms why he wouldn't be visiting hospital, John and Sherlock went home. Mere seconds later, Sherlock was entrenched on the couch with his injured leg propped up on a pillow, forced there by his tyrannical flatmate. John went to fetch his medical kit from the bathroom as Sherlock plucked at his shredded trouser leg, trying to ward off a truly epic sulk.

When John returned and knelt on the floor beside the damaged limb, Sherlock asked, "How does it look?"

"Your shin is a bit torn up," John said, lifting up the torn fabric to peer at the injury, "but I think you'll-"

"Not me, John. The trousers."

John snorted; a rather inelegant gesture, Sherlock thought. "The trousers are dead, I'm afraid, and I've got to get to the wound." Without warning, he gripped both sides of the torn fabric and pulled sharply, tearing the fabric open from ankle cuff to mid-thigh. Sherlock groaned, his head flopping back dramatically. John, the unrepentant git, merely grinned. "I think you'll survive the loss. Your wardrobe seems to be self-perpetuating, anyway."

"Your cavalier attitude is most distressing."

"I've had the same complaint about you for a while. Now hold still. I need to pick out this glass."

There was silence for a time as John slipped easily into doctor mode, snapping on a pair of disposable gloves and tearing open a pack of medical tweezers, before hunching over to pull out tiny shards of glass. The discomfort was minimal, thanks to the dregs of adrenaline in his veins, and Sherlock watched without comment, strangely fascinated by the deft and gentle hands that moved over his wound.

"It's not as bad as it looks," John said, speckles of bright blood decorating his gloves. "Give me a moment, and I'll lay down a few stitches."

A sterilized swab moved carefully over the raw flesh, making Sherlock hiss, and John shot him an apologetic glance before pulling open a packet of needle and thread. He worked quickly and efficiently, drawing the torn skin together and tying knots with fingers that moved like music, his deep blue eyes narrowed in concentration.

For reasons he could not begin to fathom, Sherlock shivered.

If John was aware of this strange reaction, he chose not to draw attention to it. "Done," he said instead, after taping down a patch to protect the wound. "Just make sure you keep it clean, and try not to run around for the next few days."

Something close to amusement pulled at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. He leaned forward, the leather cushions groaning as he shifted, and ran an appreciative hand over the neat bandage. "You know that won't happen."

"Hope springs eternal, and all that," John quipped, pulling off the gloves and neatly packing up the remains of his medical kit.

Still somewhat captured by the doctor's hands, Sherlock's gaze sharpened on a curved strip of scar tissue in the pad of flesh between John's thumb and forefinger, the thin skin highlighted by a dusting of latex powder. His concept of personal space had always been iffy at best, so he felt no compunction about gripping John's left hand and drawing it closer, so he could peer closely at the scar. If there was a hiss of surprise, Sherlock ignored it entirely.

Upon closer inspection, its origin was obvious.

"You were bitten. Fifteen years ago, by the fading. Your sister?" He looked up to see John's lips thin, and the way his eyes darted to the side told a clear story. "You confronted her about her drinking, and there was a fight."

"Right, very good," John said, making a halfhearted attempt to pull his hand away. Sherlock merely looked at him steadily, and his flatmate sighed, relaxing into the touch. "It wasn't the first time I tried, but we both lost our tempers that day, and I started dumping her bottles down the drain. Harry didn't like that much."

Sherlock's eyes flicked down, narrowing as he drew a thumb across the scar. "Your sister is an idiot."

"The thing is, she's really not, except when it comes to liquor. We all have our blind spots, I suppose."

"Some bigger than others," Sherlock murmured, tracing the little dots of tissue left behind by the teeth of an addict.

"Sherlock…"

Those weren't the only scars, though. Keloid scars marred the knuckles, a legacy brought about by punching with his dominant hand, and a small, rough scar stretched along the pad of a finger. A hot gun barrel, perhaps?

"Sherlock?"

He turned John's hand over, tracing past the scar and down to the palm, fascinated by the odd combination of calluses gliding beneath his fingertip. John's fingers weren't as long as his own, but they were strong and capable of delicate maneuvers. Hands perfectly suited for a healer with the strength of will to kill.

He wondered if gun oil would still be present on his skin, sharpening the smell of latex powder. He wondered-

Another hand, solid and so very warm, curled around his wrist and squeezed once. "Oi!" John said, snapping Sherlock from his reverie. "What's wrong?"

Secretly mortified, he let go of John's hand and stood with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Nothing," he said, and walked calmly to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

The darkness of the room was soothing, and he bowed his head with a sigh. His skin felt too tight, his treacherous fingers tingling with the memory of a callused palm, and he rubbed them against his damaged trouser leg, attempting to banish the feeling. It didn't work.

There was no doubt now. Something was very wrong with him.


End file.
